Title: Numair's Story
Author: Me
Disclaimer: All characters from Tamora Pierce's books obviously belong to her copyright. I only wish I had half the imagination it takes to create a Stormwing…
Chapter One
He breathed a prayer of thanks to any listening gods as he was thrust into blessed darkness. Uncounted hours of continuos bright light and two days of sleep deprivation were wreaking havoc on his body and mind. The guards laughed as he slumped to the floor onto a scattering of slimy straw—a poor excuse for a pile, but welcome at the moment, nonetheless.
The guards stopped laughing as a dark-skinned, imposing man, whose many gold and bejeweled adornments winked in the light of the torch against the blackness of the dungeon, approached silently. He stepped past the sentries and looked down at the man in the cell, an odd gleam in his eyes.
"Don't allow him to sleep for more than an hour," the man spoke softly, the beads hanging from the many braids in his hair clicked as he craned his head for a better view of his suffering prisoner. "I want him to be awake to contemplate his execution tomorrow. But do not tell him the day or the hour. Let his mind wander in confusion. I want him broken," he spit out the final word with contempt. Abruptly, he turned and strode back down the dark corridor from whence he had come, the chilling tone of his voice lingering on the moldy stones of the passageway.
The harsh clamor of wooden staffs being beaten against the metal bars of his cell wrenched Arram from the precious little sleep he had managed to fall into while in this pit. He was aware of the torture techniques being used upon him; he was also aware that they were working as intended. He was losing his ability to focus and the smallest noises were causing him to glance about nervously in a vain attempt to locate the source. The sentries jeered as Arram jerked into a sitting position and scrambled as far back into the cell as he could manage. A small dish of thin porridge with a cup of brackish water were pushed into the cell. Arram reached forward to grab them and then retreated hastily once again, as though someone might take the rancid food from him. At first, he hadn't eaten the meager gruel or moldy bread. When he realized that Ozorne had no intention of forgiving him, and that the prisoners were only fed every two to three days, he choked down his inhibitions along with the food.
He had just forced himself to swallow the last of the polluted water when someone that he couldn't see drew the attention of the guards. They stepped out of Arram's field of vision to speak in low tones with the visitor. Moments later, much to his surprise, the guards crumpled to the floor. A helmeted head came to rest briefly in front of the cell before the body was dragged away. Arram, unsure of what was happening, began to panic. He tried to squeeze his six-foot-five-inch frame into the corner in hopes of not being noticed. The part of his mind that was separate from all that was transpiring informed him that this exercise was futile. His legs continued to push against the floor as though he could sink into the wall and disappear.
Keys jingled and scraped in the lock. "Arram?" a soft, feminine voice carried through the darkness. "Arram? Are you there?" He shifted, desperately wanting to dissolve into the dirty stones of the floor.
"Arram?" another voice, a male voice thick with worry, hissed into the gloom.
"Oh my—Arram!" Varice Kingsford, Arram Draper's lover, a shapely blonde woman of about twenty, stepped carefully into the cell. When she saw Arram in the corner, she dropped to the floor and reached for him. He threw up his arms to hold her at bay and croaked from a throat horse from screaming.
"Don't touch me! Please! Don't hurt me…" his voice trailed off as he lost energy. Varice could now see eyes bright from fever and a face gray from exhaustion by the light of the torch carried by her companion, Lindhall Reed, Arram's former teacher.
Lindhall pushed the raving man's arms down. Arram offered no more resistance; he sat limply against the wall, no longer caring what happened to him. "It's times like this I'd give anything to have a healing Gift," Lindhall put a hand to Arram's forehead and quickly drew it back, wincing. "He's burning. We have to hurry. I didn't give the guards very much nightbloom; they won't be out for long." Varice didn't respond. She sat staring at the shadow of the man she loved sitting on the floor. "Varice!" Lindhall barked at her. She jumped to attention. Dragging over the satchel she had brought with her, she removed a large pair of shears and, timidly, approached Arram once again. The expected attack never came. His eyes looked straight through her for a few moments and then closed. His head lolled to the side in unconsciousness. Dragging him away from the wall, The two wrestled him into a better position and began to cut of his long, thick black hair. The curls fell to the floor, blending in with the scum and dirty straw.
"He's not going to be very happy when he wakes up and discovers that his beloved hair is all cut off," Varice attempted to make light conversation, but the tone of her voice betrayed tears close to the surface.
"At least when he wakes up he'll be free. Hair grows back; heads don't," Lindhall muttered. "Besides, if he's recognized, then all this is for nothing. He'll be dead before he even notices the breeze on his neck."
Varice said no more. Once Arram's appearance was altered as much as they could alter it without magic, they heaved him onto a blanket sling and dragged him out of the cell and down the passageway. At the bottom of a small flight of stairs, two large men rolled the blanket about him and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. Varice laid a hand on the blanketed figure before he was carried away.
"Goodbye, Arram," she whispered.
Author: Me
Disclaimer: All characters from Tamora Pierce's books obviously belong to her copyright. I only wish I had half the imagination it takes to create a Stormwing…
Chapter One
He breathed a prayer of thanks to any listening gods as he was thrust into blessed darkness. Uncounted hours of continuos bright light and two days of sleep deprivation were wreaking havoc on his body and mind. The guards laughed as he slumped to the floor onto a scattering of slimy straw—a poor excuse for a pile, but welcome at the moment, nonetheless.
The guards stopped laughing as a dark-skinned, imposing man, whose many gold and bejeweled adornments winked in the light of the torch against the blackness of the dungeon, approached silently. He stepped past the sentries and looked down at the man in the cell, an odd gleam in his eyes.
"Don't allow him to sleep for more than an hour," the man spoke softly, the beads hanging from the many braids in his hair clicked as he craned his head for a better view of his suffering prisoner. "I want him to be awake to contemplate his execution tomorrow. But do not tell him the day or the hour. Let his mind wander in confusion. I want him broken," he spit out the final word with contempt. Abruptly, he turned and strode back down the dark corridor from whence he had come, the chilling tone of his voice lingering on the moldy stones of the passageway.
The harsh clamor of wooden staffs being beaten against the metal bars of his cell wrenched Arram from the precious little sleep he had managed to fall into while in this pit. He was aware of the torture techniques being used upon him; he was also aware that they were working as intended. He was losing his ability to focus and the smallest noises were causing him to glance about nervously in a vain attempt to locate the source. The sentries jeered as Arram jerked into a sitting position and scrambled as far back into the cell as he could manage. A small dish of thin porridge with a cup of brackish water were pushed into the cell. Arram reached forward to grab them and then retreated hastily once again, as though someone might take the rancid food from him. At first, he hadn't eaten the meager gruel or moldy bread. When he realized that Ozorne had no intention of forgiving him, and that the prisoners were only fed every two to three days, he choked down his inhibitions along with the food.
He had just forced himself to swallow the last of the polluted water when someone that he couldn't see drew the attention of the guards. They stepped out of Arram's field of vision to speak in low tones with the visitor. Moments later, much to his surprise, the guards crumpled to the floor. A helmeted head came to rest briefly in front of the cell before the body was dragged away. Arram, unsure of what was happening, began to panic. He tried to squeeze his six-foot-five-inch frame into the corner in hopes of not being noticed. The part of his mind that was separate from all that was transpiring informed him that this exercise was futile. His legs continued to push against the floor as though he could sink into the wall and disappear.
Keys jingled and scraped in the lock. "Arram?" a soft, feminine voice carried through the darkness. "Arram? Are you there?" He shifted, desperately wanting to dissolve into the dirty stones of the floor.
"Arram?" another voice, a male voice thick with worry, hissed into the gloom.
"Oh my—Arram!" Varice Kingsford, Arram Draper's lover, a shapely blonde woman of about twenty, stepped carefully into the cell. When she saw Arram in the corner, she dropped to the floor and reached for him. He threw up his arms to hold her at bay and croaked from a throat horse from screaming.
"Don't touch me! Please! Don't hurt me…" his voice trailed off as he lost energy. Varice could now see eyes bright from fever and a face gray from exhaustion by the light of the torch carried by her companion, Lindhall Reed, Arram's former teacher.
Lindhall pushed the raving man's arms down. Arram offered no more resistance; he sat limply against the wall, no longer caring what happened to him. "It's times like this I'd give anything to have a healing Gift," Lindhall put a hand to Arram's forehead and quickly drew it back, wincing. "He's burning. We have to hurry. I didn't give the guards very much nightbloom; they won't be out for long." Varice didn't respond. She sat staring at the shadow of the man she loved sitting on the floor. "Varice!" Lindhall barked at her. She jumped to attention. Dragging over the satchel she had brought with her, she removed a large pair of shears and, timidly, approached Arram once again. The expected attack never came. His eyes looked straight through her for a few moments and then closed. His head lolled to the side in unconsciousness. Dragging him away from the wall, The two wrestled him into a better position and began to cut of his long, thick black hair. The curls fell to the floor, blending in with the scum and dirty straw.
"He's not going to be very happy when he wakes up and discovers that his beloved hair is all cut off," Varice attempted to make light conversation, but the tone of her voice betrayed tears close to the surface.
"At least when he wakes up he'll be free. Hair grows back; heads don't," Lindhall muttered. "Besides, if he's recognized, then all this is for nothing. He'll be dead before he even notices the breeze on his neck."
Varice said no more. Once Arram's appearance was altered as much as they could alter it without magic, they heaved him onto a blanket sling and dragged him out of the cell and down the passageway. At the bottom of a small flight of stairs, two large men rolled the blanket about him and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. Varice laid a hand on the blanketed figure before he was carried away.
"Goodbye, Arram," she whispered.